You were sleeping
on my side of the bed,
quietly snoring.
I thought about asking you to move,
because I wanted my pillow back,
but I couldn’t bring myself
to disturb you.

And as I climbed into the other side
trying not to wake you,
I thought about the things
I needed to get done today,
but the rays of the rising sun
were beginning to peek through
the slits in the blinds,
and as the clouds drifted,
the rays changed location,
finally settling on an acute angle
that led to your naked body
that was tangled in my comforter.

The bands of light inspired me to write,
so I opened up my laptop,
but the glare of the screen
eliminated the natural light
soaking your skin,
and with it the thought I’d had
moments ago.

I tried to recall the idea,
but all I could think about
was that it was strange
how much I was enjoying
watching you sleep,
and how much I loved you,
and how this was all just
too surreal,
but you just wrote about
watching me sleep yesterday,
so I couldn’t very well
write about that either.

-Olanna, 2012

pedanticpersiflage:

If I turned my pen into a key
to the cage
of my page,
could I capture this feeling
in the shackles of a verse?

This curse
starts with the presumption
that words can serve
a function
in the conveyance of meaning,

me to you,
you to me,
to the world,

a writer?

I could tell you it’s this knot
I get in my stomach
sometimes
that makes me want to throw up
and belt out an infinite
string of laughter
all at the same time,

but that wouldn’t exactly describe
that feeling that’s at best
a failure in character,

that feeling that can only be described
as indescribable. 

olanna:

You were singing that song
to yourself,
the one with the guy
who repeats himself,
singing along about
how he wanted
to see her smile.

I glanced at you from the
driver’s seat of my car,
smiling,
noting how perfect
the moment was,

and how striking the sun looked
at that hour as it set,
glowing fire red over 290,
the sky splashed in colors,

and I thought,
for something like the
fiftieth time,
about Pulp Fiction,
when Mia Wallace said
knowing you’d found
someone special
was when you could just
shut the fuck up
and comfortably enjoy
the silence together.

I don’t think I should
be taking love advice
from the movies,
especially Tarantino ones,
but I’m pretty sure she was
right about that part.

-Olanna, 2012

This got featured and that made me happy.

pedanticpersiflage:

Well, I must admit
the crawfish was fucking delicious,
sucking out the brains
where all the spices from the boil remained,

don’t think I didn’t notice
the little tick your face made
showing your slight disgust
with each woosh
produced by the head sucks,

a backyard in suburban Texas late evening
of a late season,
the heat of Summer isn’t long away 
before I curse life
as I peel the back of my sweaty shirt
off the black leather of my car each day,

but now, we still cling
hard to the end of spring,

a firm grasp like my hand around this Corona
and yours around some concoction
introduced by the all too stereotypical gay dude
a fusion of Cool Whip and 151,
a Pink Panty, he called it,

I was looking forward to pulling off
the blue ones you were wearing
under that dress
with my teeth later,

but first,
I was made to endure
the same guy singing pop songs
to boy bands
blaring out of backyard speakers
I was at this point ignorantly proud of the fact
I had never heard of,

and then to top off the night,
there was a drunken group rendition
of Journey,
no, this was not my kind of party,

but the crawfish was fucking delicious,
and you’re my kind of girl,

and I don’t think
I could’ve had a better time

anywhere else.

trixclibrarian replied to your post: Silence, Sunsets, and Song

you always deliver - hmmm. both of you. two peas perhaps (but secretly I like you best) awkward! hi’s

Your praise makes me as giddy as a middle school girl. :) (Oh, and it’s not much of a secret anymore ha.) <3 

You were singing that song
to yourself,
the one with the guy
who repeats himself,
singing along about
how he wanted
to see her smile.

I glanced at you from the
driver’s seat of my car,
smiling,
noting how perfect
the moment was,

and how striking the sun looked
at that hour as the sun set,
glowing fire red over 290,
the sky splashed in colors,

and I thought,
for something like the
fiftieth time,
about Pulp Fiction,
when Mia said
knowing you’d found
someone special
was when you could just
shut the fuck up
and comfortably enjoy
the silence together.

I don’t think I should
be taking love advice
from the movies,
especially Tarantino ones,
but I’m pretty sure she was
right about that part.

-Olanna, 2012

pedanticpersiflage:

I threw caution to the wind
and chopped through it
with my hand
on the way back down
to slapping your ass,

I wonder if I pulled the common sense out
with the strands of your hair
left wrapped around my fingers,

or if that bite mark
I left on your chest
was an efficient enough brand,

we fought the demons
with hormones, 

and made the decision,
what happens happens
even if we both know how badly
that can end up,

but looking at your unintended smile
when you hold me close
even though
you should have gotten up ten minutes ago
to get ready for work

makes me feel
like we’ve won the war.

“You wanna know something about Cory and his mom?” my son, Zachary asked me in the car the other day. Zach and Cory are ten years old, but have known each other since they were around four. Cory is a cute kid, a hell of an athlete, of mixed parentage, unequivocally likable, but from an obviously less stable home life than one would desire for their kids.

Zach says, “They’re poor.”

“So?” I replied, automatically filled with the defensive position I tend to take when the label of “poor” is spoken of with negative connotations. Because, to me, “poor” means survival, appreciation, hard work, deserving, and a billion other adjectives that mean I understand more than you.

Simultaneously, I’m struck with the ever-present doubts of parenthood, because if there was any value I wanted to impart on my children when I first learned I was to be a mother, it was the value of appreciation. It was that we would not take the things I am fortunate enough to be able to provide them for granted. It was that, despite my reluctant decision to migrate to the suburbs years earlier, I would still ensure they would be exposed to the cultured inner loop of this fine city, so as not to be sheltered from the less desirable side of life. It was that my children would never, ever look down on someone for having less than they.

Zach can tell, I think, that I’m irritated so he goes on to say, “No, I mean like so poor do you know how much he thinks is a lot of money?”

“How much, Zachary?”

“30 bucks!” he says, incredulously.

I realize that he sincerely, innocently thinks this is an absurd belief. Thirty bucks, to my son, means nothing.

I think of when I was their age; what we could have done with thirty bucks. The shoes that could have been replaced long before the holes were so noticeable other kids would poke fun. Emergency room visits that could have been avoided because we could have gone to one of those primary care doctors who only charged a nominal fee they called a copay, but we always had to wait until we were so sick it couldn’t be ignored any longer. (My brother almost died because of that once.) Water bills that could have been paid on time, laundromat money we could have used, and school yearbooks that could have been cherished over the years.

I think about what they don’t realize thirty bucks gets for them these days. Zachary is on his fourth pair of shoes this year. Zoe went to the mall with friends the other day and didn’t have to do anything to earn her spending money. Their respective lunch accounts at school cost fifty bucks this month alone. And as I’m defending Cory and his family, the tone of the conversation has taken a completely different turn. I want to know what Zachary said to him. Did Zach, did my kid make Cory feel like crap for valuing thirty bucks? I’m lecturing them both about what they take for granted and telling “when I was your age” stories that they have zero interest in. I’m admonishing him for his thoughtless behavior when it occurs to me that it was supposed to be my job to make sure he understood these things and suddenly, I mourn my failure as a mom.

Just then Zoe chimes in asking if I bought the headphones she asked for earlier in the day to replace the umpteenth pair she broke.

I think we’ll go volunteer at a soup kitchen soon. Or maybe I just won’t turn back on the cable and internet for a while. Take away Zoe’s cell phone or Zachary’s xbox. Or cook fried Spam and canned beans for dinner. I wonder if any of that will help.

unclemike replied to your post: The Temptress

Wow, your best yet. I’m impressed. Love ya’ bunches

Thanks, I think that’s the first time you’ve commented on something I wrote :) Love you bunches! 

trixclibrarian replied to your post: Spring Fever

i so love this “storyline” awkwadness and bigluv to you my dear

:) Thanks dear! 

roggyscanvas replied to your post: Spring Fever

spring fever is right! damn. i like this

Thanks :) I was pretty proud myself. 

The temptress
peeks from around the corner,
beautiful to behold and
horrifying all the same,
singing siren songs that lure me,
no doubt to my death,
and caress my skin,
concealing shadows that hold
the memories of once-befores
and things I can’t live through
losing again,
but are somehow
inconsequential in the
face of this magnificent
temptress bearing gifts
of possibility and love.

Having internet issues in the house :( and while the Tumblr app has improved significantly over the past couple years, it still won’t allow replies to comments. So, thank you for the lovely comments. Oh, and I’m also 99% sure I can only see asks, not fan mail, on this silly app, so I apologize for my lack of response in that regard as well.

It was nearly stifling
with sweat and heat and
the raw stench of sex
lingering in every room
of your apartment,
and as your hands traced
each curve of my body
softly, gently, irresistibly,
the bright blue of your eyes
pierced me,
and I again gave in under
the weight of your fingers.

I thought that I must be
coming down with something,
a fever perhaps,
because I felt flushed
and disoriented,
but I also had this nagging notion
that this is what I remembered
falling in love felt like.

What a terrifying thought,
I thought,
I think I’ll just
blame it
on the fever.

-Olanna, 2012